The following is from Rebecca Kauffman's novel, The Gunners. After the death of a close childhood friend, 30-year-old Mikey Callahan begins reuniting with an old group of friends, dubbed "The Gunners." But before he can really reconnect, he needs to confront his own dark past—particularly his relationship to his father. Rebecca Kauffman is the author of Another Place You've Never Been, which was a Center for Fiction longlist finalist.

Mikey Callahan discovered something about himself when he was six years old. Students from his first-grade class were taken one at a time fromtheclassroomandusheredtothegymnasiumforstandardmedical tests. The woman who barked his name (although she called for Michael, instead of Mikey, as his classmates knew him) held his hand as she walked him down the hall, and her fingers were as dry and cool as a husk. In the gymnasium, there were rectangular tables, screens, clipboards, grown-ups dressed in white. A man with a rust-colored mustache put a cold rubber point into Mikey’s ears, stared in at them, and led him through a series of easy tests: instructing Mikey to close his eyes and repeat words the man whispered, then listen to two recorded tones and tell him which waslouder.

Mikeyproceededtothenextstation,wherehewasaskedonceagainto close his eyes, and say “Now,” when he detected that he had been touched, on his face or his arm, by the tip of a pen. Easy. Mikey liked thisbetterthansittinginaclassroom,andheenjoyedbeingtouchedin this way. Gentle,clinical.

At the final station, an easel at the far end of a long table displayed a white piece of paper with a pyramid of black letters on it. A woman stood next to the paper and pointed at letters one at a time, and Mikey read the letters back to her. The letters got smaller as she moved down thepage,andhestruggledtoreadthefinaltworows.Thewomanmade anoteonherclipboard;thenshehandedhimablackplasticspoonand asked him to cover his left eye with it. She replaced the set of letters withafreshoneandrepeatedtheexercise,withsimilarresults.

“Ican’tcoverthisone.”Hegesturedtowardhisrighteye,puzzledby her request. “It’s the one thatworks.”

Theladycameandkneltbeforehim.Shelookedathisfaceandsaid, “Oh,dear.”

Mikey didn’t understand.

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Sheexplainedtohimthatbotheyesweresupposedtowork;most people had two goodeyes.

Mikeynoddedslowlyasheconsideredthis.Hehadacompulsionto nod when faced with unpleasantinformation.

He said, “Please, let’s not tell my dad.”

“Mikeydidnothaveamotherofhisown,andbecausehisfatherrefused to provide any information on this matter, Mikey took it upon himself to search their home for clues.”

WhenMikeygothomefromschoolthatday,hisfatherstaredathisleft eye, the bad one, with a look of mild distaste; then he led Mikey throughaseriesofhisowntests,asthoughtheschoolhadexaggerated the condition. He made Mikey close his right eye and tell him how many fingers he was holding up. Mikey tried to answer correctly, fluttering his right eye open to peek. He begged his father not to make him wear a patch like a pirate, and his father said, “What in the hell would thataccomplish?”

His father told him he must make the decision, right at that moment, whether the world would know about the left eye or whether it would be Mikey’s secret, and he seemed relieved when Mikey quickly answeredthatitwouldbehissecret.Asthoughthecondition,ifknown by others, would in some way reflect poorly upon both of them. They didn’t speak of itagain.

Mikey’s father worked for the meatpacking facility in Eden, several towns over. He always smelled of blood and had red in the corners of his fingernails, carrying with him the insinuation of violence, brute force. His face was lumpy, as though it had been stuffed full, his eyes drooped. For Mikey’s entire childhood, the two of them lived in the firstfloorofatownhouseonIngramStreetinLackawanna,adepressed suburb of South Buffalo. Only half the homes on their block were occupied. The others had boards for windows, liquor bottles smashed into the front porches, stray cats shitting in overgrown lawns. The upstairstenantsintheirtownhouseworeslipperstothestoreand always smelled vaguely sulfuric, and they engaged in monthly screaming arguments with the landlord over late rent and threats of eviction. Mikey’s father always paid rent on time, but sometimes he forgotabouttheutilities,andamaninnavywouldshowupdemanding acashpayment—sayingthatiftheycouldn’tpay,he’dpulltheplugon their house, and then how would they see at night? What would they eat?

Mikey’s father ate four things: cereal, apples, white bread with cold cuts, and Chips Ahoy! cookies. Mikey was not introduced to other foodsuntilhewasofferedthembyhisfriendsfromtheirlunchboxes or by his friends’ mothers in theirhomes.

Mikeydidnothaveamotherofhisown,andbecausehisfatherrefused to provide any information on this matter, Mikey took it upon himself to search their home for clues. He looked for things he had seen in the homesofhisfriendsbelongingtotheirmothers:aballofpantyhoseor a shoe with a pointy heel, long lists written in cursive, a little plastic basket filled with nail polish or a box of Tampax beneath the sink, an apron with roosters or reindeer embroidered onto it. He recovered not one piece of hard evidence in his ownhome.

On one occasion, however, Mikey discovered a single item that didn’t fit in his home; it wasn’t quite right. It was a small suitcase located in the corner of his father’s closet, beneath a stack of neatly folded sweatersinvariousshadesofgray.Thesuitcasewastackyandbright— it was the only thing in their entire home that Mikey simply could not imagine his father purchasing. When Mikey opened the suitcase, the scent of the cobalt-blue lining inside tickled at a memory, as faint and farawayandindistinctasasinglepuffofsmoke.Maybeamemoryofa memory. Even so, Mikey began to wonder if he had not been born out ofalady’speeing-hole(likehisfriends),buthadsimplyarrivedinthis suitcase, which was perfectly sized to hold a small child and vaguely womblike in its shape. Mikey had no proof that this suitcase had producedhim,butasayoungboyitwashismostpersistenttheory,and he liked to open the thing and stroke its strange synthetic fur and imagine that life had begun in this soft, blueplace.